Coffee and Cigarettes
by dorianblue
Summary: An inadvertent meeting.


_**Notes: **This ficlet is set maybe a year after the series finale. 'Tis nothing special, and hurriedly written at that. A bit of strong language here and there._

**Coffee and Cigarettes**

_by dorianblue_

I'm sipping strong coffee when I spot them. It's a sunny Seattle day - my lunch break - and they're strolling towards my favourite cafe, holding hands, and chatting as they walk. He's dressed in slacks and a casual shirt, not a suspender in sight; she's in a simple summer dress. They look like a love story in motion.

It's been about two years since I saw them. I crush the end of a Camel Light into the ground, stubbing it out with a little moreforce than is really necessary. Yes, I smoke now - took it up right after the divorce from Nancy. Christ - what a train crash _that _marriage was. But then, I _was _on the rebound ...

There's a big crowd of us here - at these outdoor tables, I mean - so I just lean back and watch them approach, assured of my anonymity. The spiteful gleam on her left hand tells me they got married after all. But then, I supposed they would. Wish I could say the same about me and Bridgett.

He whispers in her ear and she cracks up, whacking him across the chest with their joined hands. He always was a witty fucker, I'll give him that. She's still in throes of hilarity but he just smiles with his mouth closed, looking at the ground, cheeks colouring slightly. It still thrills him to make her laugh.

I don't get it, I really don't. That they belong together - well, that's obvious to anyone, even a table full of divorce lawyers. But how the hell did_I_ get caught up in their whole saga? The casualties of love stories are traditionally cads, villains or fools. What does that make me?

Maybe I'm all of the above.

She's close enough that I can see her face now, clearly. Memories steamroll me, so that I'm pinned to the chair, face set, trying not to show how shattered I am by this - this inadvertent meeting. Well, not a meeting, exactly - more an observation. This is car crash territory - I know I should look away, but can't.

Jesus, how does she do this to me? Even after all this time?

I was at a client's sixtieth birthday party last year. Lots of society women. One of them goes: "Well, you'll never guess what Maris's husband has gone and done. Taken up with his brother's housekeeper! There's a gold-digger if ever I saw one." Another one cooes: "Ooh, so you've seen her?" The gossipmonger nodded. "Yes, at a benefit some years ago. Not even all that attractive, if you ask me. A bit crude and common - you know the type." I listened to this and seethed. Stupid, stupid socialites. Did they ever wonder why every social function in Seattle was crawling with their own lot, out seeking husbands? Did they ever wonder why there were so many spinsters in their set? Those women with their well-coiffed looks couldn't compete with said "housekeeper's" rude beauty; their finishing school manners never measured up to her rough-hewn grace. Those socialites thought charisma was about being the most important person in the room, but _she_ knows it's about making everyone else feel that _they _are.

I felt like that, once. The most important person in the room, I mean. Now he gets to feel like that, all the time. Why him, I can't help but wonder - what's so fucking extraordinary about a spindly emasculated psychiatrist? Because if he _were_ extraordinary, that might make things easier.

My eyes shift slightly as I size him up, the same way I eye opposing counsel before a deposition.With a grimace I notice for the first time that he's my physical opposite. Thinning blonde hair versus thick black curls; a delicate bone structure versus a round face; a frail physique versus a chunky frame; blue eyes versus brown. I wonder if that means something.

I sigh then, and spark up another cigarette. Of course, she didn't leave me because she fancied a go at another body type. There had to be something deeper, something special - indefinable, even. And despite what he did to me (not to mention his wife), I know for a fact that at least he's not an asshole. He does have certain admirable qualities.

I hate him, of course, but that doesn't mean I dislike him.

Just when I think they're about to spot me, she tugs on his arm and leads him across the street. They sit down on a bench directly opposite the cafe - directly opposite me. He drapes his arm around her loosely and she crosses her legs towards him. He brushes his lips against her temple and she leans her head against his shoulder. I don't worry that they'll notice me, because they're far too wrapped up in each other.

They continue talking quietly, and she starts digging through her bag. She draws out all manner of objects - a bottle, a finger puppet, a diaper (or a nappy as she'd call it) before finally emerging triumphant with a compact. So baby made three, it seems. Today must be their day off. They sure seem to be savouring it.

I can take this, I decide, as I squash out another cigarette, more gently this time. They look happy and they're married now and they've got a little boy or girl. Better to be jettisoned in favour of the real thing than a fleeting whim, right?

He smiles faintly, watching her watch herself in the compact mirror. He says something - real sincerely -and she smiles bashfully.

It's when she touches his face and pulls him in towards her that I have to look away.


End file.
